


Our Crooked Aim

by dust_motes



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gunplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_motes/pseuds/dust_motes
Summary: Adam, Jim, and a gun.
Relationships: Adam Jensen/Jim Miller
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Our Crooked Aim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stark/gifts).



> Stark! ❤︎
> 
> Title taken from Margaret Atwood. _Because_.

The HUD mocks him.

Adam checks the time—7:31 PM; twelve hours on the nail since he came into the office—and blinks the clock off. On his screen, the words of the report he's been typing out form overlong sentences dotted with phrases like _In compliance with ordinance number_ and _As per the agreement with the state police_. Adam's kind of sorry Jim will have to check every comma in it. He looks it over once more and saves the file with a sigh. Waits. Listens. Checks the time again. 7:32.

Jim's office is soundproof; the echoes of raised voices he thinks he's picking up over the evening office chatter must simply be a projection, yet he strips them away strand by strand searching for Jim's voice. His fingers twirl a pencil like a knife.

(Jim said it was gonna be a rough day after they kissed goodbye in the morning. Adam said something about the perks of putting cushions on the desk strapped to your ass; what he meant was _Stay safe_.)

He flinches when MacReady's door opens, the pencil stilling as Adam's focus shifts. Without anything to do, his hands itch and prickle. He puts them flat on the desk and presses until he feels the cheap metal bend to accommodate the shape of his fingers.

Mac's joints pop as he steps out of his office, stretching his arms. In the harsh light, he looks tired and done, and the surprise tightening the corners of his eyes when he notices Adam still behind his desk doesn't do him any favors. He lets his arms fall to his sides. "Jensen, what the fuck. I thought you'd gone home ages ago."

Adam gives him a carefully nonchalant half-shrug and eases up on the pressure on the desk. "Paperwork."

Mac rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me you've picked today to catch up. Miller's been on the phone with the brass for fucking hours. Wanna bet he won't thank you if after that you give him more shit to deal with?" 

"Does he ever?" Adams counters with a question. A bullshit one, one might say, were one to think about all the could-you-pass-me-the-salt and buy-beer-on-your-way-home-please that have happened since this thing between Adam and Jim started a few weeks ago, but Mac has no way of knowing this and cannot appreciate the... finesse of Adam's deflection. A pity, if Adam is to say so himself.

An incredulous snort will have to satisfy. "Fair point. It's your ass on the line, not mine. Do what the hell you want with it. Just don't say I didn't warn you. And don't stay too late. I'm supposed to be cutting back on the division's 'resource usage'." Mac's fingers make a quotation mark in the air.

The budget overrun has been a point of contention between Manderley and Jim for some time now, Adam knows. He's just not sure whether Jim told him or he learned through the Collective. Fuck.

He puts an effort into his smile to make it as wide as he can without splitting his lips. "Wouldn't dream of making you look bad in front of the boss."

Mac flips him off on his way out.

◈◈◈

It's half past ten by the time the door to Jim's office hisses open and closed. Adam's already logged off and clocked out, sitting in a dimmed office ready to leave. Ready to spring out of his chair the moment he hears Jim's steps, really. He could've gone back to his flat hours ago. He _should've_ gone to his flat; he hasn't been there in a week. A bottle of Nye's Rye sits on the countertop in his kitchen waiting for him. Grocery shopping wouldn't be amiss: the milk in the fridge has probably gone off and Adam's running low on cereal (Jim's breakfasts tend to consist of black coffee and no food. Adam sincerely hates him some days). If nothing else, he left a book he's been wanting to finish by his bedside; he could go pick it up.

The idea… doesn't appeal.

And besides, Jim's had a rough day. 

He catches up to him by the elevator. They never leave together and never arrive at the same time, but they can get away with it once, Adam thinks. The few people still in the office sit with their faces in their screens and go out of their way to pretend to not see the boss anyway. 

"Jensen. Still here?" Jim looks more tired and done than Mac did. The scar on his chin seems deeper. The wrinkles around his eyes look as if they gathered dust. Adam flexes his fingers to stop himself from reaching out.

"Boss. I thought you'd appreciate the report on the Stehlík case first thing in the morning tomorrow." Adam closed it a good ten days ago; he doesn't even blame Jim when he snorts, turning away from him.

In the elevator, the unhappy lines around Miller's mouth tighten into a scowl. "You should've gone home," he says quietly enough Adam has to strain his ears to hear him. "I'm too tired to fuck."

It... stings. Adam's glad the shades haven't gone down yet. A bitter 'As you wish' uncurls on the tip of his tongue, but Adam holds it behind his teeth. Not the place for this. He thrusts his hands into his pockets. The comforting shape of a pack of cigarettes drags against his thumb.

Outside, Adam stops to light up. Miraculously, it isn't raining and the asphalt has dried up enough to stop smelling wet for the first time in weeks. The passers-by have their collars up, but it's a habit worth holding onto in Prague, even in spring. Especially in spring, the treacherous season of hot days and cold nights and unexpected snow after the beer gardens' owners have put their tables out.

Adam makes the smoke swirl around in his lungs long enough that a Sentinel alert blinks red in the corner of his vision, then blinks quicker. He waits five more seconds and lets it out.

Jim is looking at the window of a jewelry store a few steps ahead; he starts walking when Adam does and they get to Nº 33 this way, not together but not apart either, spaced out enough that nobody thinks twice when they see them like that: facing the same direction.

◈◈◈

The shower's already on when Adam closes the door behind himself and reactivates the alarm. Jim must've made a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he walked across the threshold. One sleeve of his coat on the hanger is crumpled and folded half inside; Adam straightens it before hanging his own beside Jim's.

Jim's gun is on the shelf, by his scarf. He never leaves it here.

A cursory sweep of the downstairs—more out of habit than anticipating danger; he already made sure Jim's place would always be well protected—reveals nothing suspicious. Two coffee cups sit in the sink where they left them in the morning, the TV's on mute (Adam hates hearing news first thing after coming in), the half-empty bottle of wine they started yesterday still breathes—aerates, Jim would say—on the coffee table. Adam goes back to take the gun and walks up the stairs. He wants to tell Jim off for being careless. He wants to—He doesn't even know. Restlessness and worry and irritation have all bundled up around his stomach and they twist and twist and push at his ribcage from the inside out; he wants them off like he sometimes wants the world off. He hits the punching bag instead, puts Jim's revolver on the desk in the hidden room, puts his own stun gun, with the silencer still screwed on, beside it, and goes to turn the heating up. Jim will be cold when he gets out of the bathroom.

For now, the water's still running and Adam, on tenterhooks, is tired of waiting.

The window-pane is cool to the touch when he puts his restless hand against the glass. Outside, Prague looks like it's waiting, too. Adam kind of hopes he won't ever learn for what.

He turns around. Going downstairs would have the advantage of not being so damn presumptuous, but—Adam opts in to clean Jim's guns instead. The automaticity of it appeals to him. He needs to not think. He needs gun oil smears across his knuckles and to feel something that fits his hand like it's always belonged there.

In the low light of the hidden room, the barrel of the revolver gleams like some of Sarif's more extravagant suits when Adam holds it closer to the lamp. He really didn't need that association right now. He should tell himself off for being careless, too—about so many things.

He doesn't. The humdrum movement of his hands puts the kind of lull in his head that makes the forgettance lurk if not within reach then at least around the edges of his mind; it's not peace, but it's close enough Adam doesn't want to ask for more.

When he looks up, Jim's leaning against the doorframe. The black briefs and white T-shirt combo looks really good on him, Adam is forced to admit. Jim doesn't smile when their eyes meet, but his face is kind. Or as kind as Jim's face ever gets. "Sorry I snapped at you," he says, taking a step inside.

Adam shrugs. "It's fine." And not like they ever talked about what they were doing here, between them. If Jim thinks of it as an uncomplicated release, then that is fine, too. Adam's mouth twists. "You've had a rough day."

"Still. Not an excuse to take it out on you." Jim looks everywhere but at Adam. He picks up the stun gun and runs his thumb over the bottom of the handle. Adam barely has time to think, _Well, shit_ , before Jim tilts his head and brings the gun closer to his eyes. "Adam," he says, just as Adam knew he would, "that's not TF29 standard issue."

"Oh?" Adams starts, but sighs when Jim just looks at him with an annoyed downturn to his lips. "Okay. I lost it and forgot"— _'forgot'_ —"to file a lost equipment notification." He puts Jim's revolver down. 

"Fucking hell."

Adam tries to hold in his sigh. "Don't worry. It's not in the wrong hands. Rather... At the bottom of the Vltava?" Most likely.

Judging by the deepening scowl on Jim's face, his words did nothing to reassure him. Adam sighs and crosses the distance between them. "Yeah, okay. I know I fucked up. It's just…" ...such a minor thing. He knows better than to say it out loud. "I'm sorry."

Jim shakes his head. "Notification. And the danger assessment. On my desk ASAP."

"Like, right now?" Adam can't help but smile a little, and Jim's mouth twists in response to it.

"Tomorrow will be fine."

Adam really wants to kiss him right now. He touches his hand instead, running his thumb across the base of Jim's thumb. Jim's sharp exhale sounds like an invitation enough that Adam allows himself the indulgence of not overthinking his next move. He falls to his knees in front of Jim and noses along the line of his cock, straining against the cotton, and when Jim's arm falls, he noses at his hand holding the gun as well. 

Above him, Jim makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a laugh. It's nice to hear. Jim doesn't laugh nearly often enough. Adam looks up and sees Jim looking down. The thumb of his other hand pushes past Adam's lips and Adam's only too glad to suck and lick it, listening to Jim's quickening breath.

Jim tastes a bit like soap, fresh and clean in a way that makes Adam smile. He lets go of the thumb to drag his teeth across Jim's cock and move to the other hand. He wants to—drag it out. Keep them together here, in a space so enclosed it already smells like gun oil and sex, until they fade into counter-reliefs of themselves and the world, and Prague, and TF29 all forget they exist.

He kisses the base of Jim's thumb and reaches out to take the gun from him, but Jim's other hand twists into his hair and tugs. "Adam," Jim says, quiet and hoarse, so on edge they both risk tumbling down. "Suck the gun." 

As much a command as every order coming from Jim on a mission. Unlike those, Adam's tempted to obey.

It surprises him less than it perhaps should.

Smirking, he tilts his head up and up and up, until their eyes meet. Jim looks—too collected for his own good. If Adam hadn't heard him a second ago, he would've believed this, Adam on his knees, lips inches from both the cock and the gun, didn't affect him much.

As it is, he shows Jim his teeth in a smile. "You military brat."

Jim rolls his eyes and moves to take away his hand; Adam stops him by the wrist. He runs his other hand up Jim's thigh and bends his neck. 

The silencer is long and thick enough Adam has to open his mouth wide. 

Gunmetal is a metal and a color, but Adam learns it's a taste too, heavy on the tongue and prickling at his gums like too much pepper in a dish. It should feel ridiculous, sucking on a fucking silencer screwed onto a stun gun, and so far out of his fantasies shame should burn his cheeks pink, but Jim's eyes are wide and awed, and his thumb presses against Adam's cheek when the gun and his tongue make a bulge, and Adam thinks, _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

He's getting hard so fast his head swims.

Jim pets his head. Caresses his cheek and swipes a strand of his hair from his forehead. He often does that when Adam's blowing him, but it feels different now, with inches and inches of space between their bodies, the universe of no compunction marked by the length of an arm holding a stun gun.

Adam pulls away and twirls his tongue around the girth of the silencer once, twice, thrice. He closes his eyes to the whooshing sound of Jim shoving down his briefs and sinks onto the gun again and again until Jim comes on his face and pushes Adam onto his back to suck him into his mouth.

The ceiling above him is white and cracked and something in Adam cracks, too, when his hips snap up and Jim takes more of him in than Adam feared was left when everything changed.

Now it kind of feels like everything changes again.


End file.
